I nodded. “Looks really good.” I reached out my hand. “Can I touch it?” My tipsy brain thought maybe it would feel like sticking my hand in water. I had to know.
Shawn leaned toward me again. “Sure,” he said, bowing his head in my direction.
I’m not really proud of it, but I was one of those kids who started drinking at sixteen to cope with the stress I felt at home all the time. There was a bridge on the outskirts of my hometown the teenagers used to gather under to drink or do drugs. I discovered that I get very handsy when I’m buzzed, which didn’t go over well with others. Even if someone else was into it, the rest would chastise us for making things awkward. After a while I kept my hands to myself unless I was spectacularly drunk. So when Shawn not only agreed to be touched but actua
